Of all of society’s down-trodden,
weak,
misinformed,
used,
abused,
confused,
handicapped,
blinded,
disenfranchised,
and helpless,
none is in greater need of a hero,
advocate,
rescuer,
liberator from the shackles of
burden of an unfulfilled existence,
as that of the Coffee Hillbilly.

With Hills Brothers and Mountain Grown,
Green Mountain, Blue Mountain,
Forest Hills, Duncan Hills,
and Land of a Thousand Hills coffee,
you’d think hillbillies would be in the know.
Just ain’t so.
You never microwave,
reheat in the pot,
set in the sun,
or set on the pot in the sun.
If it’s over three hours old,
throw it the fuck out!
Or send it to Osama or Obama,
Kim Jung Il, or old Fidel.
You can even ship it to Al Qaida, the Taliban,
or to Mr. Ahmadinejad if you can.

I like mine black,
no sugar no cream,
strong enough to use as mercury.
If you get close enough to smell it,
you’re gonna want to taste it.
It should lick your tongue,
then kiss your throat
as it works all the way down to that sweet spot.
When done correctly,
it’ll warm you all over,
make your toes curl.

So, put your mullet in a ponytail,
take some pride,
have some standards.
Stop drinkin’ yak piss from
one of those Starbuck thermal cups.
Stop already with the,
“Can I get this nuked?”
No, if it’s too hot now,
I will not put an ice cube in it for you.
Next thing I know,
you’ll want a little umbrella.